Climate of Negatives
by Lothithil
Summary: A series of vignettes dedicated to Illya Kuryakin. Evolving.
1. Instinct

**Climate of Negatives  
****Instinct **

"It's been a long day… Illya, would you care to join me at the Club for a drink?"

Napoleon Solo regretted the suggestion as soon as he had uttered it. The look Illya Kuryakin shot him was a breath's short of scathing.

"Um, if you're not, ah, otherwise engaged," Solo added, after several awkward seconds of staring.

Kuryakin's voice was as dry and cold as the Siberian tundra. "I am waiting for the punch line. You **_are_** joking, Napoleon—aren't you?"

"Apparently." Solo said mildly. Kuryakin held him for a few moments more before releasing him from his glare.

They were leaving UNCLE headquarters by the agents' entrance. It had been a long day, but one of routine, with lots of tension—and paperwork—but no real excitement. There was a breathless quality to the evening, as if it had been too long since something went awry, and something could happen at any time. Both Solo and Kuryakin could feel it. It may have been time to go home—but not to abandon vigilance.

Solo leaned forward to allow the pretty young female agent to remove his badge, taking the opportunity to inhale the lovely fragrance of perfume daubed behind her delicate ear. Kuryakin plucked the badge off of his coat and dropped it carelessly on the desk, slipping out of the thick door as soon as it opened.

By the time Solo pushed aside the curtain to Del Floria's changing room, the customer bell was shivering a last dying tone, the door already closed. Mr. Del Floria had retired for the day, but Napoleon knew the shop was always under surveillance. He saluted the two-way mirror, a motion that to a casual observer would appear to be nothing more than a vain man checking his reflection before stepping out on the town.

Solo had a rare uncommitted evening before him. Usually he would have an encounter planned with one or another lovely lady. Lacking his usual motivation, Solo found himself wondering idly where it was that Kuryakin went when he left the office for the day. Why had he been in such a hurry tonight, disdainful of Napoleon's invitation?

As senior agent, Solo was familiar with the his fellow agent's file, and so he knew everything there was to know about the young Russian—except what he did in his personal time, and where he did it.

Solo assumed the Gypsy blood in his friend's veins coupled with his Soviet heritage was what made the man so impenetrably secretive. It was impossible to guess what motivated him. Possession and material objects hold little value over him, though Solo could see that Kuryakin respected and obviously enjoyed American life and its amenities. But other than the compact blue Jaguar that Illya drove with passion, and the neat black suits and crisp white shirts he wore, he seemed to move through his world touching and affecting as little as possible. He didn't even have a permanent address listed on his file.

Curiosity piqued, Solo felt an overwhelming desire to follow Kuryakin, to learn something of the mystery. But even if he had wanted to act on such an impulse, it seemed to be too late. The night street had swallowed up all traces of his blond counterpart. Napoleon was alone in a street empty except for the ubiquitous detritus of paper and smoke that were mandatory in a New York street.

Lifting his face to the sullen sky, he smiled suddenly. He felt himself observed, and knew instantly—in that way that he knew but couldn't explain—that Kuryakin was somewhere nearby.

No matter which way Solo walked, idly down one street and turning at random, he felt the presence move with him, giving to his approach like shadows retreating from the glow of a candle. How he knew it was his friend and not some threatening lurker, he couldn't have put into words. He just knew.

Napoleon whistled a tune and made his way briskly through the pools of light splashed along the streets, heading for Cappio's Club. He knew when he got there that he'd find a martini—very cold and very, very dry with a twist of lemon—already ordered and waiting for him, sitting next to a cup of black coffee in the most remote corner of the bar.

He hurried so that Illya's coffee wouldn't get cold.


	2. Ambushed

**Climate of Negatives  
****Ambushed**

Napoleon's breath caught in his throat when he saw the figure sprawled on the flagstones. Gripping his UNCLE Special in his fist, he ran at a crouch to his partner's side. Bullets chewed at the parapet inches above their head; flecks of concrete and hot metal shards fell all around them. He ducked, closing his eyes and waiting for a break in the deadly rain.

"Illya?" He gripped the man's shoulder, checking for life.

Illya groaned in response. Napoleon released him quickly; his hand came away wet with blood. "Oh." Napoleon peeled back the lapel of Illya's coat, surveying the damage with a grave face. "Right."

Illya opened his eyes, blinked. "Ugh—" He looked up at Napoleon's tight expression. "I think they were waiting for us, Napoleon…" he said through gritted teeth. His left hand groped for the gun he had dropped. He sighed as his fingers closing comfortably around the grip.

Napoleon peeked over the barrier between them and the Thrush agents. A pause in the machine gun fire meant they were reloading—or possibly moving in.

"Time to go… come on, Illya."

"Are you sure I'm all right?" Illya peered down with interest at the growing stain on his coat.

"Of course you're all right. You're always all right." Slipping his arm under his friend's back, he helped him lurch to his feet.

"Good," Illya slurred, "I was worried there for a second…"

Now standing, Illya could see their enemies, no longer hiding in their cowardly ambush. He leaned on Napoleon and lifting his good arm, began squeezing off shots. Two of the Thrush agents jerked and fell. The last one dove to the ground and scrambled away through the underbrush.

"You blockhead," Illya mumbled, letting his arm drop, "you bungled my shot. One got away…" The gun clattered to the ground as Illya sagged in Napoleon's arms, succumbing at last to his injuries.

"Next time, Illya," Napoleon said, devoutly hoping that there would be one.


	3. Expendable

**Climate of Negatives  
Expendable**

The wind was a flood as savage and deadly as the waters of the swollen river far below. They were forced to crouch to avoid being plucked from the arched walkway by the howling storm.

The bad guy had the gun and the girl—and no way to escape. Solo blocked his way ahead. "There's no way out of here, Von Trapp! Let the girl go."

Von Trapp turned as if to retreat, but stopped when he saw that Kuryakin had appeared behind him, closing the bracket. The wind tore at his blond cap of hair as the young Russian shouted to make himself heard over the cry of the wind, "You are surrounded! I recommend you avail yourself of the opportunity to surrender, before our sniper opens fire."

The villain wasn't going to give up easily, however. "You wouldn't dare!" he snarled. "Not while I have a hostage!" His eyes danced between the two men. The girl struggled; he adjusted his grip on her, wrapping one arm around her shoulders and under her chin, holding the barrel of his gun near her ear. "Stay back! If you come closer, I shall shoot her!"

Pushed beyond the limits of her fear, the girl dropped her chin and sank her teeth into Von Trapp's forearm. The man howled and jerked back, releasing her. Napoleon surged in and caught her, pulling her down onto the bridge to keep them both from falling.

The wind whipped up with fresh fury, and Von Trapp managed to maintain his balance, but it cost him his gun. It clattered off the stone and spun away to be swallowed by the swirling brown water.

Kuryakin fought for balance as well, windmilling his arms to keep himself from being kited off his feet. Von Trapp saw this and lunged toward him, intending to shove the agent out of the way—permanently.

But he'd underestimated the tough little Russian. Flexible as a feline, Kuryakin shifted his weight and dropped to one knee—and Von Trapp had to reverse his momentum to keep from hurling himself into the river. He clung to Kuryakin, and they wrestled on the span.

Kuryakin knew what was coming next, but instead of releasing Von Trapp and diving for cover, he held his prey upright and prayed that the sniper's bullets would kill them both quickly. He didn't relish drowning in the murky water.

"Fire now, damn it! I can't hold him forever!"

A gun cracked once, twice, and a third time. Locked in a pugilistic embrace, both men jerked, marionettes with tangled strings.

Napoleon looked up in horror as the two men swayed and began to fall. "Illya—!" He watched until his friend disappeared beneath the boiling water. The girl sobbed against his chest. He closed his eyes and dropped his face into the nest of her hair.


	4. Expendable, pt II

**Climate of Negatives  
Expendable, pt II  
**

Perversely, the storm lessened as the two survivors huddled on the narrow span, the wind trickling down to a pensive murmur. The river, swollen from the dam that had been destroyed by Thrush, churned and gurgled below.

Solo knew he needed to get the girl to solid ground, but now that the worst danger had passed, he took a moment to stand and search downstream. If he could see some sign of his friend, he might at least be able to recover his body for a decent burial—

"Excuse me!" The sound of Kuryakin's voice made Solo jump half out of his skin.

Looking straight down, he saw his friend clinging impossibly to the invisible strand of molecular rope that was looped around the span just below his feet. Somehow, the resourceful man had managed to anchor himself before making the mad plunge into the river. Solo felt a huge grin split his face.

"Don't just stand there… give me a hand!" Clinging to the wire-thin rope, looking like a drowned kitten, Kuryakin struggled to pull his lean body out of the ruthless tug of the current. "This water is very cold!"

"You crafty little spider!" Solo leaned down and grasped the wire, ignoring the way the rope cut his hands as he reeled his friend upward. "I thought you were a goner! Did you get perforated at all?"

"No." When Kuryakin was close enough, he reached up and grasped the edge of the stone, pulled himself up onto the span. He lay there for a long moment, gasping and shivering. His hands were bloody, his smile white against the streaks of mud that ran out of his hair and down his face. "I want a medal for this one. For both of us."

"You can have mine," Solo said, panting and shaking his own stinging hands. "I'll settle for a cold martini and a warm debutante."

"A medal for our UNCLE marksman, then. And a case of vodka!"

"He's earned it! Let's get off of this thing—"

Solo held out his hand, and Kuryakin clasped it. If they hadn't been blood-brothers before that moment… they were for ever thereafter.


	5. Itsy Bitsy Spy'der

**Climate of Negatives  
Itsy Bitsy Spy-der**

Inside the warmth of the chateau, the men talked through the night, alternating grandiosities with social diablerie amid sips of brandy and a haze of blue cigar smoke. So confident they were in the security of their meeting place that they had not even taken the measure of securing the window. After all, they were on the third story of this elegant pile—who but crickets and moonlight would overhear?

Illya's nose twitched as the hue of cigar fumes breathed over him in the darkness. Every word spoken within was overheard by this wily man, as well as recorded via the nifty gadget that he wore on his wrist. He had no fear of being spotted by the pacing guards below; columns of climbing plants created the perfect concealment, and the rope he'd used to lowered himself was invisible as a spider's web. He peered through the flowers, their colors misplaced in the dark but noisy with scent, occasionally snapping a picture with the tiny infrared camera mounted in his belt buckle.

Everything was going extremely well, the fools within waxing their way through their dastardly plans, when suddenly the pen in Illya's pocket began to beep. A soft sound, but one that did not go with darkness and the fragrance of bougainvillea. He silenced the sound swiftly, but not before the damage was done. One of the heavies who had been standing near the window came wandering over to investigate. Illya let himself drop on his rope several feet below the sill, trusting the darkness to baffle the snooping Thrush agent.

"Illya? What's going on?"

_Damn you, Napoleon!_ Illya tried to keep even his thoughts in a whisper as he burrowed deeper in the foliage, _Not now! _He muffled the communicator between his shoulder and chin while clinging with gloved hands to the fragile trellis, trusting his weight to the strength of the rope that anchored him to the roof of the chateau. Craning his neck, he looked upward to see if the curious man had tasted enough darkness.

He could see him leaning out, the window swung wide open on its hinges. The thrumming cord of his rope hummed mere centimeters from the edge of the frame. Illya stared with a kind of detached pessimism, waiting for the window to hit the rope and give the game away.

The Thrush man sniffed the air, sneezed, then pulled the window closed. Illya sighed and buried his face in the invisible flowers, savoring the taste of pollen.

His pocket whispered to him. Sighing with exasperation, he twisted the cap and muttered, "Silence is the element in which great things fashion themselves together."

"What?"

"Shut. Up. Napoleon."

"Oh! Right--"

Hand over hand, Illya drew himself back to his place. The night was full of secrets, and he was the silent listener.


	6. Lovelocked

**Climate of Negatives  
Lovelocked**

The tumblers purred as Illya turned the last dial. He could hear the tell-tale sounds that a vault makes just before she surrenders her secrets. It brought a small smile to his lips.

The iron box was meant to look strong, forbidding, and impregnable. Illya was not intimidated. Getting into the Swiss bank undetected had been the challenging part. Now all the security and safeguards served the young Russian, rather than the criminals who had filled this vault, insuring his privacy as he seduced the lock and swung open the heavy door.

A long flat box inside, minute stars studding finest velvet lining. Illya's eyes shone with the light they captured and magnified. He smoothed his hair back from his forehead before reaching past the wealth of minerals, deeper inside the dark interior. His smile became triumphant, and he withdrew the narrow packet of papers, bound with stained leather. This was what he'd come for.

Another man might just take the thing, let its absence serve as a message, proof of the thief's skill. Such an idea did not enter Illya's disciplined mind. He needed no acclamations; his quiet, private triumphs meant far more to him than any man's opinion. He worked swiftly to photograph the contents of the packet, carefully turning the pages and leaving no prints, smudges, or creases.

Soon the packet was back in the box with a million dollars worth of diamonds as a paperweight, and Illya was closing the door and spinning the lock. He turned the dials back to the places they were before he touched them. Before he left, he knelt and ran his gloved hand over the smooth metal of the vault, one last time.

Let Napoleon have his conquests; Illya's lovers kept their secrets longer.


	7. Skeleton Key

**Climate of Negatives  
Skeleton Key**

The window wasn't latched, sparing him the necessity of breaking the glass. Even such a simple locking mechanism was, for the moment, beyond Illya's ability—he could barely move his right hand. Tucking his gun gingerly under his arm, he pushed on the pane. It slid upward with an indignant squeak.

It opened on a cluttered loft, stuffy and airless but considerably warmer than out-of-doors; He groped through the darkness and invisible obstacles until he was against a wall. Slowly he slid to the floor, clearing cobwebs from the naked wooden lattice. Safe from detection for at least a while, he finally permitted himself to just sit and listen and maybe catch his breath.

He rested his right hand on one knee, too tired for the moment to do more than hope that the tendons hadn't been severed. In his left hand he kept a grip on his pistol. A few moments later Illya's head fell back against the wall and the gun struck the wooden floor with a thump. He heard neither sound.

She heard noises upstairs, where the Master of the house never permitted anyone to go—not even to clean. But he wasn't home tonight, out celebrating after another one of his Hunts, and the other servants were all asleep. She took a small flashlight and crept up the stairs. Her feet left clear prints on the dusty steps.

The door was locked, but she had a key. She had found it one day when she had been locked in the root cellar, doing penance for breaking a dish. It was odd and terribly old, a special key that opened all the old-fashioned doors in the house. She wore it on a ribbon around her neck, the only secret she ever had to keep. She drew it out and fitted it in the old lock. It turned with a scraping sound.

As soon as she opened the door, she knew something was wrong. A breeze bullied past her, laden with dust and the scent of mothballs and neglect. She stepped inside and closed the door quickly. Panning the flash around, she spotted the open window. She went to close it, but when she touched the pane she drew her hand back in alarm. Her fingers had found something sticky and wet. In the weak light of her flash, it looked more black than red.

The thick dust was disturbed. She followed the marks with the beam of her flash, eventually pinning the intruder where he slumped against the wall. His head was canted to one side, his eyes closed. The pale skin on his face, particularly his neck, reflected the light, and his hair curled over and mostly hid one bloody ear. His clothes were dark and close-fitting, torn off one shoulder and stained. In one hand he held a pistol; it rested on the floor beside his splayed legs. He had no shoes on.

"Been in the wars, huh?" she murmured softly. "Poor thing."

If only this had been the first wounded bird she'd found after one of the Master's hunts. She knelt down to place her hand over his heart, feeling for movement of breath.

His eyes opened at her touch, the hand holding the gun twitched. So pale blue they were nearly gray, his eyes. She felt herself measured by that cool regard. He made a small sound in his throat.

She smiled a little. This one might make it.

"I'll be back. Wait here… and don't make any more noise." She smoothed back his hair, brushing away cobwebs. "You should be safe here for a while. At least until the Master returns."

His eyes gleamed. Something between fear and fury ignited there, and she began to wonder who this man might be. She began to hope that, in him, the Master may have met his match.

Perhaps, when he returned, it would be the Master who would no longer be safe.


	8. Fire Drill

**Climate of Negatives  
Fire Drill**

Solo glanced at his watch as he ran, nearly falling down the steps. He chivvied the sleepy and confused servants who were congregating outside, looking fearfully back at the house with plumes of smoke climbing from every window and doorway.

"Go!" They scattered like leaves when he shouted at them. He paused at the bottom of the stair and turned back, forehead creased, to regard the watch again. Flames were licking at the threshold of the wide door. "Illya! Time to **_GO!_**"

The smoke swirled in the doorway and spat out a figure, soot-covered and slightly singed, just as the whole edifice seemed to jump and roar. The roof flew off, and everyone hit the deck.

Solo looked up from his place on the ground just as Kuryakin rolled down the steps to sprawl beside him. The Russian was laughing like a maniac.

"Sure you used enough explosive?" Solo asked dryly, sitting up and slapping at the dust on his jacket.

"Only as much as I had," Kuryakin didn't even try to get up; he lay on the ground and watched the fire work on the ruins, as an artist might evaluate his latest opus.

"Remind me not to consult you for ideas to redecorate my apartment." Solo stood, offered his hand to Kuryakin.

"I told you, Napoleon—I _used_ all my explosives." Kuryakin grinned brightly through the dirt on his face.

"You know, Illya, it disturbs me how much fun you find in doing this kind of stuff."

"A man needs a hobby."

"You should try dating redheads. Just as much fire—but not so much damage."

"Obviously, we don't know the same red-heads."


	9. Out of Service

**Climate of Negatives  
Out of Service**

He sat with his cap tilted forward, casting a useful shadow over his eyes. A humid wind reached through the rolled down window and ruffled the straw-colored hair that stuck out behind; Illya Kuryakin feigned drowsiness as his cab idled at the corner taxi stop. There were several yellow cabs ahead of him and it was a slow time—there would be no danger of being interrupted while he waited for Solo to call—

The rear door popped open and a slim woman burdened with a half-dozen packages slipped onto the sweating vinyl seat. "Canal Street, please." She wore a vast hat that hid her face entirely.

"Madam," Illya kept his voice pitched low, using his coarsest broken-English, "Please to take taxi at head of line..."

"Nonsense," she huffed, slinging her bags aside and digging in her purse. She came up with a gold-plated compact and began to repair her make-up. "Drive on."

Kuryakin sighed. This was not part of the plan. Solo might signal for help any second. He dipped his arm over the back of his seat and turned to speak to her directly, "No drive, madam... taxi queue begins at corner of street. You—"

He lost track of his argument as the woman blew a puff of powder into his face. He choked, eyes crossing as he slouched down onto the seat, his arm still dangling over the back. A man yanked open the driver's door and shoved the unconscious Uncle agent aside so that he could slide into the seat and shift the car into gear. The cab whipped out of the queue and plunged recklessly into traffic.

After patting her nose delicately with a puff, the woman snapped her compact closed. She hoped Napoleon wouldn't be too cross with her for abducting his little Russian friend. All is fair in love and war... and a little war sometimes made love all the more fair.


	10. Piece of Cake

**Climate of Negatives  
****Piece of Cake**

"It's very frustrating, Napoleon." Kuryakin said as he swung in the gloom.

"What do you want me to say, Illya? I agree."

"Trussed up like two sides of beef! Why do it, when a bullet and a body bag would be a more lasting diversion?"

"Do you _want_ them to shoot us?"

"Of course not. But I don't know if my dignity can take this."

"So let's get out of it. I won't tell anyone about it if you don't."

"Thank you. It is **_I_** who will know."

"Then we'll get even. That will make you feel better. "

"Ah, revenge; the great equipoise of self-esteem."

"Don't be so cynical. Harry Houdini has got nothing on you."

Kuryakin took a few deep breaths as he began to concentrate. Slowly, he bent his lean body, bringing his torso up until his nose nearly touched his knees. At the same time, he worked his wrist-bound hands behind his back, down—or rather up—over his slim hips until they were behind his knees. There he paused, gulping for air while he eased the strain on his quivering muscles by hugging his legs tightly.

After a moment he began to work his hands closer to his ankles. He couldn't reach the knots on the rope that tied his wrists together, but he might be able to worry his feet free.

"See?" The tone of Solo's voice suggested that he'd never harbored a single doubt in his partner's ability. "Piece of cake."

"If I ate cake," Illya groaned, trying to ignore the burning in his tortured body, "I wouldn't be… able… to do… this!" He dropped several inches as one of the ends of the rope came free. He began to twist in midair, pulling himself back up by the rope to reach the other knot.

"You realize," Illya gritted tightly as he tugged at the line, "if I succeed, I'll at least earn myself a broken arm. Unless I land on my head."

"Try not to do that," Napoleon suggested helpfully.


	11. Finished in a Tie

**Climate of Negatives  
Finished in a Tie**

Napoleon chuckled at Illya as he fumbled in front of the mirror. "You mean, I've finally found something that you're not good at?"

"'Good' is a relative term," Illya said with eroding composure. "There is no application that experience and practice cannot improve."

"And just how long have you been experiencing and practicing this… application?"

"Really, Napoleon," Illya sighed, "I don't see what you find so amusing about this."

"I've seen you escape from every knot known to man… and some unknown! How is it that you can't tie a bowtie? What do they teach you to do with rope in the Russian Navy—macramé?"

"I can kill a person seventeen different ways with forty centimeters of stout cloth," Illya growled, undoing the lopsided bow with a sharp gesture.

"Somehow I think that would be counterproductive tonight. Here, let me-- before you garrote yourself." Napoleon stopped his partner before he could tear off the offending tie and throw it aside.

With deft fingers, he manipulated the silk into a presentable loop and smoothed the collar. "There. Perfect." He faked a right cross, giving Illya the merest tap on the chin. "You'll knock 'em dead out there."

Illya permitted himself a chilly smile. "Not tonight. I'm off-duty."

"Just in a manner of speaking." Napoleon turned toward the mirror, his hands reaching up to adjust his own tie fastidiously. "How do I look? Do you think Vickie will approve?" He smoothed the cuffs on his new jacket. "Illya?"

His friend had slipped out of the room silently. Napoleon cursed and lunged for the door, hurrying out in time to see Illya offer a rose to the tall, statuesque Vickie, who promptly draped herself over his shoulder and allowed him to steer her toward the dining room.

"Clever Russian," Napoleon grumbled and gave Illya a scowl to smile smugly at. "Next time you can do your own tie!"

Napoleon became suddenly aware that there were several beautiful ladies in the lobby. His face relaxed into a smile as he went in. "Practice and application… where to begin?"


	12. Don't Lose Your Agrippina

**Climate of Negatives  
Don't Lose Your Agrippina**

Napoleon looked on in shock as Illya raised the woman lightly over his head. It wasn't the fact that he could lift her—he knew how unusually strong his slightly-built partner was—it was where he had placed his hands that was impressive.

"Gee. Women don't let me put my hands on them like that until I've bought them dinner and a bottle of champagne! Sometimes, not even then!"

"I worked with the Kirov Ballet Company to help pay for college," Illya grunted. He held her steady, but the lady was by no means light as a swan. She was, however, able to reach the rope attached to the ladder which would help them escape from the oubliette.

"The broadness of your education never ceases to amaze me, _tovarich_."

Illya lowered the lady, but the ladder only descended a few feet before it gave a rusty complaint and froze. Illya instructed her to release the rope, and with a jump he managed to catch it. Swinging, he hauled on it with all his weight, but the ladder only shuddered and refused to move.

Napoleon stepped in. "Excuse me." He wrapped his arms around Illya's legs and pulled. The ladder finally descended and Illya wound up sitting on Napoleon's broad shoulder, one hand on the bottom rung.

"Well done, Napoleon." Illya pulled himself onto the ladder to keep the spring from drawing it back up. "Help the lady up, would you?"

"With pleasure."

The ballerina laughed as Napoleon took her by the waist and raised her to the lower rung, where Illya waited to steady her. "_Soubresaut! Tres bien!"_ She cried as she kissed Illya on the cheek.

Illya blushed. Pointing upward, he said, "_Échappé!_ _Vite, vite!_"

"You should have stayed with it, Illya," Napoleon said enviously, as he watched the woman ascend gracefully. "Why did you quit?"

"I wasn't getting enough sleep." Leaving Napoleon wearing a look of incredulity, Illya climbed up the ladder after the girl.

Napoleon started after them a heartbeat later, calling up hopefully, "Do you think the position is still open?"


	13. Milk Run

_**Milk Run  
**a.k.a The Gratuitously Action-Packed Opening Gambit Affair_

_Airports could sometimes be quite beautiful,_ Illya Kuryakin reflected as he sat staring out the small window next to his seat, waiting for the other passengers to disembark. It had just rained, and the sun was glowing defiantly through the pouting clouds; everything was slick and shiny and new-looking. The maze of the city, glimpsed over and beyond the sprawling arms of the airport terminal, was a landscape in monochrome struck here and there by golden shafts of light like fingers from heaven. Even the busy New York air was less acrid. A weary traveler might regard the crowds and chaos with a baleful eye, but to him—at least today—it was a welcome sight. It had been too long since he'd been home.

As he had no connection to make, he waited patiently for the airplane to empty before he raised himself out of his seat. His only luggage was a single satchel that he had held in his lap through the flight. He slipped the long strap over his shoulder and made his way unhurriedly toward the exit.

The flight attendants were waiting with smiles and goodbyes. He let his face soften to return the pleasantries, turning his body to knife through the narrow opening the girls left for him to pass through. It was too bad he was on assignment… and a good thing that Napoleon wasn't with him. He felt slim fingers slip something into his pocket as he slid through the gauntlet of twill and tantalizing perfume.

After the first bend in the exit ramp, he cautiously inspected his pocket, but it was nothing more perilous than a phone number on a cocktail napkin. By the shade of the lipstick seal, he deduced that it was probably an innocent invitation—Chantilly Pink was not a color that Thrush-_femme fatale_ would wear. Still—better safe than sorry—with a touch of regret he let the napkin slip from his fingers through a crack in the ramp, where if the thing started smoking or blew up, no one would be overly inconvenienced. Not before, however, he committed to memory the exchange and numbers, of course. Just in case.

He walked on, letting his bemusement fade as he focused his attention on his surroundings. The boarding ramp was close and cramped as a cattle chute. A good place for an ambush or an attempt to divert him before he reached the terminal. But nothing leaped out or dropped on him or sprang up from the floor. He passed easily into the waiting area among the clusters of people greeting their friends who had just arrived.

Pausing to untwist the strap of his satchel, he covertly scanned the room. No suspicious characters working on empty cups of coffee, no janitors sweeping the same spot on the floor, no nervous newspaper readers smoking in the corners. Disturbingly unthreatening.

This trip had been a milk-run so far—but Kuryakin had no illusions that Thrush was going to let him get back to Uncle without some antics. And since their attempts in Copenhagen and Reykjavik had failed, the New York airport was the next most likely venue for more of their kind of fun. But so far, he could see nothing untoward or doubtful.

He resettled the strap of his satchel and smoothed the fabric of his coat before he turned to make his way out of the terminal. He still had to get to Uncle headquarters, and there was a lot of territory to cover still—plenty of nooks and crannies where Thrush could spring their surprises.

Near the door of the terminal entrance he spotted the man. His back was to Kuryakin because he was talking to a very pretty girl, but he could still be recognized by the fine cut of his suit and his carefully groomed hair. Kuryakin hadn't expected to see him here; already on the alert, Kuryakin felt an extra surge of adrenaline begin to course through his limbs. His hand wandered toward his left side.

"Easy there, Illya. Can't a fellow show up to give an old friend a ride home from the airport?" The man spoke to Kuryakin, but his eyes never left the face of the lovely girl.

"A conditioned response, Napoleon." Illya stepped up to him and permitted an anemic smile. "Somehow when I see you, I just associate it with trouble."

"Glad to see you, too, Illya." Solo had not looked at his friend yet; his eyes were following the girl as she swayed away. She turned and blew him a kiss.

The Russian rolled his eyes and said, long suffering, "I can hardly wait till the shooting starts."

Solo turned his smile on him. "Come on. Uncle Alex wants us to bring him his bottle of milk before it goes sour." As he spoke, six strange men charged through a security entrance, their faces hard and their hands full of heat.

"I hope he likes his milk warm," Illya said grimly as he gripped the butt of his gun with his right hand, still holstered under his left arm. His free hand moved protectively to the bulk of the satchel hanging at his side.

Solo drew his weapon, but kept it under his coat. "This way!" They broke and ran toward the baggage claim area, hoping the number of witnesses would discourage their unfriendly reception committee.

There were several people in the area, waiting around the carousel as the bags and suitcases tumbled down from the conveyor belt. Their presence, however, did not seem to concern the men chasing the Uncle agents. They charged in boldly, waving their pistols. A woman saw them and began to scream, dropping her packages. The others began scrambling for the other exit.

Solo swerved toward the panicking woman, shoving her down behind the carousel just as the first gunshot cracked echoingly in the large room. He aimed and fired his Uncle Special; the silenced weapon made no more noise than a muffled cough, and the gunman crumpled and sprawled to the ground, tripping the two men running behind him. The others dodged around the men and spread out. One shouted, "There! The one with the bag—Kuryakin! Stop him!"

Kuryakin ducked behind the other side of the conveyor belt. He grasped the satchel by the strap and held it up. "Is this what you're after?" He swung it round sharply and let it fly toward the carousel. It landed lightly on the belt, moving speedily toward Napoleon. He launched himself into the midst of the three men trying to recover their feet and guns.

Solo hooked the bag with one hand while shooting at the men trying to flank him. One of them jerked and spun away, but his two companions came on, guns blazing.

The woman he had pushed down to safety was now clinging to his leg, crying loudly. Thus inhibited, Solo was unable to run for the exit with the prize. "Madam, please!" He was forced to grab her and dive onto the conveyor to avoid the next barrage of bullets. He rolled over and returned fire as he was swept past. One thug dropped his gun and fell. The woman fainted. The other broke and ran for the exit.

Kuryakin was in the middle of a three-way fistfight, catching two punches for every one he dealt out, but showing no sign of giving up. He grabbed one man around the neck and swung his legs up into a kick which made the man catching the blow whirl around like a dervish; blood spattered on the neat white stucco walls.

The third man had backed off while his companions were falling, picking up one of the guns littering the ground. He would have a clear shot at Illya as he was struggling with the remaining man.

Solo rolled off the conveyor to lend his help, scattering abandoned luggage, and realized that the satchel was no longer on his shoulder. He looked back and saw that the strap had broken, caught on the edge of the carousel. Trusting Illya to handle himself, he ran back and grabbed the bag. The broken strap was caught in the conveyor belt. He yanked hard. The strap broke.

Lifting his legs up and over the head of the man he was grappling with, Kuryakin forced the larger man to fall backward to avoid a broken neck. The wily agent held on, maintaining the pressure across the man's throat until his struggles ceased and he collapsed. Kuryakin shoved him aside to avoid being pinned beneath the weight of the larger man.

The remaining thug was waiting for this; he raised his gun. Kuryakin saw him in that same moment, saw the dirty pleasure in his eyes, and knew that he was going to shoot. The man couldn't possibly miss, if he was even a half-competent marksman. He threw himself to one side in a desperate maneuver; his fatalistic philosophies did not extend to passivity in the face of likely death.

A brown object flew through the air and struck the arm of the gunman just as he squeezed the trigger. The gun barked and the bullet ricocheted off the mechanism of the carousel. Illya came out of his roll and dove behind the machine as Solo gave him cover fire.

But the gunman had lost interest in shooting Kuryakin; he had realized what had spoiled his shot: Solo had thrown a piece of luggage at him—a satchel! He grabbed at the prize by its strap and began to run, firing over his shoulder to keep the Uncle agents' heads down.

Kuryakin rose as if to give chase, but had to duck quickly to dodge a wild shot. He sat down on the floor behind the carousel, next to Solo, and together they listened as the sounds of the man's footsteps faded into a rising chorus of police sirens.

Illya let his head fall back against the machine and breathed. "They bought it," he exclaimed with wonder.

"Well, he did, anyway." Napoleon was reloading his Special. "And I'm glad he did when he did… I was almost out of mercy bullets. But whether Thrush buys our little decoy or not—we shall see."

Illya was examining his jacket. There was a hole just under his armpit; he frowned at the finger he had poked through it as he said, "It will take them some time before they realize they've been duped, but now we will be able to reach headquarters."

"Why, Illya!" Napoleon observed largely, "when did you become such an optimist?"

"Sometime between the time that the gun went off and the moment that I didn't die," came the dry reply. "Let us go before we wind up having to make long and passionate declarations to the constabulary regarding our activities."

"Good idea. We'll let Section Five round up our sleeping playmates and handle the local police. Here." Solo thrust something toward Kuryakin.

It was his courier satchel. "Napoleon!" Kuryakin juggled it a little, his surprise nearly causing him to drop it. "I thought you threw this at the Thrush!"

"Oh dear… there were a lot of bags on the carousel," Solo sounded apologetic, but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. "I must have given him the wrong one. Pity."

"You are a disingenuous fellow, Napoleon."

"Thank you. I try. Shall we?"

They walked calmly toward the exit, melting into the gawking crowd and slipping past the blue uniforms with ease.


	14. Secret Agent Blues

**Climate of Negatives  
Secret Agent Blues**

The bartender set down two drinks and moved away.

Napoleon picked up his, staring at the dark liquor swirling in the glass. "Don't you ever think about it?"

Illya made the contents of his glass disappear. "There is no woman I love so much that I would invite her to become my widow."

"You're such a pessimist."

"It's the vodka. It instills pragmatism."

"Is that what it's made from? I thought it was potatoes."

"'Instills', not 'distills'—you're getting maudlin, Napoleon. _**Why**_ would you want to settle with one girl, when you have them all?" Illya gathered the world in a collective gesture.

"All to have and none to keep." Napoleon tasted his whiskey.


	15. Teamwork

**Climate of Negatives  
Teamwork  
**

"I'll just go turn this equipment in to the Armory--"

"Oh, no you don't, my slippery Soviet friend! We're doing this debriefing together."

"But you are Section two, Number one... while I am a mere enforcement agent."

"You're not a 'mere' anything, Illya... and I'm not taking the heat for this one alone. We both lost the THRUSH device that Mr. Waverly sent me after."

"But we stopped their plans... we saved the innocents."

"Then you have nothing to be afraid of by accompanying me."

"There's the fact that I was supposed to be on assignment in Kyoto while you were in Buenos Aires."

"Ah. Well. Maybe _we_ should finish _your_ assignment before I file _my _report."

"I'll get the car, Napoleon... but you're still going to be the one who tells Waverly."

"Fine! _**You**_ can do the paperwork."

"Don't I always?"


	16. Mother of Fear

**Climate of Negatives  
Mother of Fear****  
**

Illya was so numb from maintaining his awkward position, he half-believed he'd never feel the strop when it finally descended.

The first stroke informed him otherwise; the shout torn from him was more from surprise than pain.

Mother Fear was an expert with a razor strop. She knew just how to lay it across shivering skin for maximum pain without leaving a mark. Useful when disciplining a young boy whose parents might sue for brutality—but not necessary when interrogating a reticent UNCLE agent.

"You're going to tell Mother everything now, aren't you, dear?" The strop cracked across his skin again. She gave her wrist a twist and raised a red weal from his right shoulder to his ribs. "Oh, that's a lovely one," she purred. "I'm afraid that one's going to hurt."


	17. The Warmth of His Smile

**The Warmth of His Smile**_  
MFUWSS drabble challenge for Fire_

Few things bring a grin to that inscrutable visage.

Listening to New Yorkers complain about winter.

A daring escape and the baffled expression of a thwarted Thrush.

Chilled vodka and hot shchi.

The slap of paper as a file is closed on another successful affair.

A well-timed pun. The expression would perhaps be hidden—to prevent encouraging my bad habits.

Explosions. Especially when set by his own workable hands.

Rarely does that grudging grin blossom into a full-blown smile. When it does—warmer than the warmest fire—and brighter than the sun.

It's a sight worth waiting for.


	18. Mother of Fear II: The Music Lesson

**Mother of Fear II: The Music Lesson**

"Torture is like music, don't you think, Illya dear? Anyone can play the instruments…"

She slashed him again with the strop. The blow elicited no more than grudging grunt from the Russian; he shrugged it off and steeled himself for the next.

"But it is just noise. It needs the touch of a virtuoso…" She reached down and traced the edge of his ear with a light finger. He winced away from her touch. She raised the strap again and laid another stroke across his reddened shoulders. This time, she was rewarded with an anguished cry of pain.

"… to make music." She sighed.


	19. Tourist Trap

**Tourist Trap**

Prague. Baroque City. City of a Thousand Spires. Golden City. Majesty. History.

There wasn't much gold or majesty in this hotel room, with the curtains drawn to keep out the casual and the curious, the door locked even against the maid. Tied to the monitoring devices painstakingly planted in the rooms above, there is no time for traipsing through Old Town Square, or a stroll across the Charles Bridge at midnight, when it is strange and silent after a bustling day of painters, peddlers and palavering people.

Duty anchors me here, in the shaded splendor of this old room with the sunlight gnawing along the edge of the drapes. I don't mind missing the sights. Good work is being done here. The things I learn will help UNCLE stay on top of THRUSH's next megalomaniacal affair.

Eavesdropping is hungry work. Where is Napoleon with our lunch? He'll probably come back with a date but without any _cmunda._


	20. Piano Forte

**Climate of Negatives  
Piano Forte**

I wouldn't have believed it, if I hadn't seen it with my own ears.

The club was dimly lit, smoky as a glass of single malt scotch, and filled with so many people that there was barely room to stand. The flickering candles on each table added to the heat of the room, beaded men's faces with sweat and sparkled across many a daring decolletage, but the meager light could not penetrate the thick air.

The only significant illumination came from the piano, where a man sat in a spot of light, playing. The moody jazz scales that his fingers coaxed from the instrument were entrancing; men leaned back, letting the music wash over them, the women leaned forward, swaying to the syncopated strains and trying to catch the pianist's eye through the fringe of damp blond hair. His face was washed in shadows.

He didn't see them, didn't see me, as I struggled upstream toward him. His eyes were closed, and he was entirely invested in the music. Fingers undulating across the keys, his body rocking with the time, his ear tuned into the piano and away from all outside distractions. He was oblivious of the crowd, the smoke, the heat—of everything except the sound.

My hand descended to his shoulder, and I was surprised by the heat I felt through the fabric of his coat. His fingers froze on the keyboard for an instant, then quickly pounded out a descant to an abrupt ending, and the spotlight winked out like a candle.

The crowd sighed in remorse at the cessation of music, but when the spotlight reappeared, a different man was sitting on the bench, blinking in surprise at the crowd through a half empty glass of whiskey.

We were through the kitchen and out the back door before the music began again, hesitant and tinny-sounding, muffled by the walls and murmurs of the crowd. My hand on his arm slowed him.

"Where did you learn to play jazz like that?"

He shook his head and finger-combed his hair, drawing in great breaths of cool night air. "Where it was born."

"I didn't know you'd been to New Orleans."

He laughed. Flapping his coat to cool himself as we walked, I glimpsed the harness of his shoulder holster against the white of his dress shirt. How he endured the heat wearing that rig is beyond me... I guess he just didn't notice while he was focused on the music. He gets that way in the lab, too, sometimes.

"Not New Orleans," he said, after a while, straightening his tie. "Jazz is born where it is—not just in a single city or time or person."

Afraid to ask questions of 'where' and 'when' –lest the unusual fountain of information suddenly dry up—I maintained a hopeful silence.

We reached the car and he raised his hand. I tossed the keys smartly and he closed his fingers over them. He opened the door, then leaned across the cabin of the car and said, "I once had the privilege of meeting Stan Tracey during a transatlantic voyage. One night, his horn player was ill—_mal de mer_ –and he called upon the audience for a replacement."

"You played with Stan Tracey? That's—unbelievable!" I said. "Truly. I don't believe you."

He shrugged. "I was young. He made an impression."

"I guess so." I slipped into the car and gave him directions.

After a few miles, as we neared our destination, he handed me his Special so I could check his ammunition clip. The weapon was hot to the touch.

"Do you always carry a gun when you play jazz?"

"When I play Chopin, too."

There was no more time to talk. We had a THRUSH nest to flush out. Those fingers I had seen deftly dancing across ivory keys were just as light and deliberate on the trigger of a gun, and knotted in a fist, as heavy and brash as the beat of a bass drum. As always, we worked together, a well-timed duet of danger. And we came out of it, if not undamaged, certainly undiminished.

As we drove back to UNCLE headquarters, I could hear him humming, despite the split lip. The music was still inside him. I wished I could hear it, too, but my ears were still ringing from the flash grenades.

I wonder if he really can play Chopin...


	21. A Friendly Game

**Climate of Negatives  
A Friendly Game**

The world is measured in black and white squares, battlefield tiled in ivory and onyx. Innocents plod forward among the maneuvering of the diplomats, side-stepping spies, and the direct attacks of fortresses. All revolve around the kings, dancing in and out with their opponents, deferring to the dangerous ladies. The fallen are gathered and numbered.

"It is contrary to all logic," grumbled the manipulator of the Black.

"Just because you're from Russia, it doesn't make you an expert chess player."

"I've read Mikhail Botvinnik. I've studied the games of the masters. I've played every variation. And still _you_ win."

"I once dated a girl named Lydia Rudenko—well, danced with, I should say. She might have been related—"

Illya rolled his eyes. "I'm serious, Napoleon. It's disgraceful. I should be ashamed to show my face, if I return home."

"Nonsense. There's no shame in being beaten by the best." Napoleon smiled.

"You are the soul of modesty," Illya rejoined dryly, slyly moving his knight into a fork between Napoleon's white queen and bishop.

"I hope not." Napoleon nudged his bishop out from behind a rook. "Um… checkmate."

"Damn." Illya sighed. "I know this is just a game, but I think I'm the one being played."

"If it makes you feel any better, you're still better than me on the parallel bars."

"Are you sure your ancestors didn't at least come from Russia?"

"Not unless they were on vacation. Play again?"

"Of course."


	22. Stakeout

**Climate of Negatives  
Stakeout**

"If it were possible for a man to die of boredom," Napoleon said, "I'd be worried about you."

Illya rolled his head slightly to fix his partner with a one-eyed, hooded glare. If Napoleon expected a more elaborate response, he was to be disappointed.

"You used to enjoy stuff like this," he went on, raising the field glasses to his eyes.

"I still do..." Illya muttered, letting his eye close again and worming his shoulders more comfortably against the stiff upholstery, "... when I'm allowed."

"I'll always wondered when you found the time to sleep," Napoleon said, dryly, "other than during my debriefings."

"You should employ visual aids. Much more interesting."

"Go back to sleep. I'll wake you when the bullets start flying."


	23. The Avenging Variety: Dec 1 drabble

**Climate of Negatives**

_Drabble Challenge MFUWSS:Angel_

**The Avenging Variety**

Solo sat back, catching his breath after another narrow escape. Beside him, Kuryakin leaned forward over the steering wheel, squinting through the bullet holes peppered across the windscreen.

"Good timing, Illya! But if you don't mind my saying, you don't look like an angel of mercy."

Illya turned a bruised eye toward him. "I don't do mercy. I am of the avenging variety."

Napoleon patted his abused dinner jacket. "Nothing to avenge but my tux. There is one thing, though..."

"You really shouldn't leave home without a spare set of trousers."

"Why do **_I_** have to think of everything?"


	24. UNCLE vs the Grinch: Dec 2 drabble

**Climate of Negatives**

_Drabble Challenge MFUWSS: Gingerbread_

**UNCLE vs the Grinch**

"A toast," Napoleon announced, "To another successful affair." He glanced at his wristwatch and added, "And just in time for Santa, too."

"Enj-joy your champagne," Illya's teeth chattered. "Six or t-ten more c-cups of hot soup, and I'll j-join you."

"Are you sure you're all right? THRUSH must have dragged you nearly a mile through the snow and ice behind that sled before those gelignite gingerbread men exploded."

"J-j-just c-c-cold. N-nice to k-know that in addition to the w-world, we've m-managed t-to save c-c-Christmas as well."

"Looks good on a résumé," Napoleon helped himself to a cookie from the plate on the mantle, "but what do we do for an encore?"

"Put that b-back," Illya roused from his swaddle of wool blankets. "The c-children left those for St. Nicholas."

"Then it is only right for St. Nicholavich to have one, too. Here… we'll leave Santa some champagne…"


	25. Not My Brand: Dec 3 drabble

**Climate of Negatives**

_Drabble Challenge MFUWSS: Fireplace  
_

**Not My Brand** (whumpfic)

"Normally, I'd welcome a nice cheery blaze in the fireplace." My eyes drag back to the superheated metal waving beneath my nose. "Doesn't anyone decorate their dungeons in something besides dank and dreary?"

"Aplomb, my dear Mr. Kuryakin. Impressive. Let's see if we can't warm up that chilly disposition of yours..."

Metal makes a strange sound when it gets hot. I make strange sounds too, as the iron inches closer.

_Turn away, Napoleon. Neither of us needs to see this._

When the iron descends, I'm not sure which of us yells louder.


	26. Ice Capers: Dec 4 drabble

**Climate of Negatives**

_Drabble Challenge MFUWSS: Blizzard_

**Ice Capers**

Napoleon hunched his shoulders up around his ears. Illya leaned his head back and breathed deeply, delighting in the touch of ice on the breath of the wind.

"Can you believe this weather? Let's rent a car. I'll put it on my expense account if you'll drive."

"We could walk," Illya countered, pulling on a pair of fur-lined gloves. "The embassy is only about ten blocks."

"Ten blocks in this blizzard might as well be ten miles! We'll be frozen before we get there!"

"Blizzard? **This** is not a blizzard! Where**_ I_** come from…"

"Oh, here we go again…" Napoleon grumbled good-naturedly. "Taxi!!"


	27. Upstaged by Alpaca: Dec 5 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Mittens_

**Upstaged by Alpaca**

Usually I am Santa to the girls at HQ... but not this year.

Instead of a heavenly cloud of special perfume, every girl was wearing—in addition to their pert white shirts, pencil-skirts and hip-holster—a riotously colored pair of mittens.

I corner Wanda. "New dress code, or did Uncle Alex Scrooge turn down the heat again?"

Wanda smiles. "Oh, Napoleon... a girl likes to have her hands warmed this time of year."

I recognize that smile. _Where is Illya?_

"**Just** her hands?" I ask, knowingly.

She blushes!

That does it. Next year, I'm buying them all woolen underwear!


	28. Knives of Winter: Dec 6 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Icicle_

**Knives of Winter**

Illya squatted down, frowning at the THRUSH agent. "We were supposed to bring one in alive."

Napoleon chafed his freezing hands. "If he'd got away, he'd have taken our snowmobile and warned the satrapy." Gently, he patted the face of the fainting woman.

"Leaving us to freeze to death alongside the innocent Miss Bayou... is she all right?"

Wide eyes blinked open, looked around until they saw the dead man, then rolled up behind wilting lids again.

"Yep. She's overwhelmed with gratitude."

"Shh, Illya! Don't be cruel."

"Me, cruel? I'm not the one who just killed a THRUSH with an icicle!"


	29. Advocaat: Dec 7 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Eggnog_

**Advocaat**

The door slid open. His partner entered bearing two cups, a plate of hor d'oeuvres, and a "Merry Christmas, Napoleon."

"I didn't think you celebrated our bourgeois holidays, Illya."

"'When in Rome…'" the Russian quoted diplomatically as he set the tray between them. "Or in this case, Manhattan. But who can pass up a glass of eggnog on a bitter winter evening?"

Napoleon accepted a cup. "Channel D has been quiet—everyone is checking in as scheduled."

"That is a very good thing." Illya touched the brim of his cup to his partner's, and they drank a silent toast to peace on Earth.


	30. Body And Sole: Dec 8 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Boots_

**Body And Sole**

Some of the most interesting things can be overheard outside the ladies lounge:

"From the heel to the ball of the foot… that's what my cousin told me. Have you _seen_ the size of his combat boots?"

"That's an old wife's tale!"

"My cousin isn't married—"

"That doesn't matter! I'm telling you, there is no way to tell by the size of a man's boots how large his—oh! Hello Mr. Solo! How long have you been eavesdropping?"

"Long enough to make you blush, Miss McNabb." Solo smiled. "Whose, er—footwear—are we discussing?"

Break-time must have been over, because the room cleared with startling speed.


	31. Slay Bells: Dec 9 drabblex2

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: sleigh bells_

_this Double Drabble might be the incident that leads up to The 'UNCLE vs the Grinch' Affair from Dec.2 drabble prompt: Gingerbread.  
I apologize ahead of time.__'Tis very silly._

**Slay Bells**

His only warning was the tinny crash of sleigh bells. The sled bore down on him, the mad-eyed driver—a THRUSH agent disguised as Santa Claus—whipping the horse mercilessly.

No way out but over! He leaped up as they bore down on him, grabbing the great horse around the neck and twisting his body up onto its steaming withers. The bells jangled wildly in his ears as he clung in place, ducking to avoid the over-sized artificial antlers mounted on the horse's head.

Leather cracked and a line of fire flared across his cheek as the driver turned the whip on him. Illya ducked the next blow, letting the whip furl around his arm. He grasped the leather and tugged hard. The man shouted and fell beneath the blades of the thundering sled—pulling Illya, still entangled in the whip, over the back of the ersatz reindeer and down.

Breath was knocked out of him as he slammed onto the frozen ground; he curled himself up as the carriage passed over him. Then there came a bone-jarring yank and his arm felt as if it were being pulled from its socket as he was dragged, plowing up a wake of snow behind the runaway sled.


	32. Solo's Little Helper: Dec 10 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: elf_

**Solo's Little Helper  
**

"I absolutely, completely, and in all ways refuse."

"But Illya—"

"No."

"You've worn more embarrassing disguises that this…"

"True. Each time while on a mission—and out of necessity. This—" The Russian held up a pair of green leggings. "I'd rather face a firing squad." He tossed the limp bundle at his partner.

Solo tossed them right back. "It _is_ for a mission, Illya—to bring joy to the Christmas season. You know I wouldn't ask you to dress up as an Elf for no good reason!"

"No, you wouldn't," Kuryakin agreed, trying on the green felt hat, "but you'd still enjoy it way too much! And why, exactly, were _you_ chosen to be St. Nicolas?"

Solo grinned. "Because I know who has been naughty and who has been nice."

"Only if they are girls and above the age of consent."

"Oh, Illya… they're all nice!"

Kuryakin rolled his eyes.

"Waverly is expecting me to appear as Santa Claus, and Santa needs his Little Helper. And you are **it!**"

"Maybe I'll get lucky and there will be a global crisis which we will be compelled to attend."

"If there is… you'll still have to wear the tights. And the curly shoes!"


	33. Nativity: Dec 11 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: frankincense  
_

**Nativity **

"This is not how I'd planned to spend Christmas Eve," Napoleon grunted as he pushed the donkey out of the stall. It made way reluctantly, and Illya gently lowered the woman into a more comfortable position in the dry straw.

"Not how **they** planned to spend it either, I'll bet." Illya's voice was as soft as the fall of the snow outside; Mother and child were finally asleep.

The irony of the situation struck Napoleon. "You don't happen to have any gold, frankincense, and myrrh on you?"

"Do I look like a Wise Man to you?"

"A wiseguy, maybe."

Napoleon yelped; the donkey had bit him on the leg.


	34. The North Pole Affair: Dec 12 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: North Pole  
_

**The North Pole Affair**

"I think I've discovered a hole in your theory, Napoleon."

"It's not a theory, Illya—higher on your side, there—it's a tradition."

"Nevertheless. The North Pole does not exist. I have been there; it is only an ice shelf. How can you perpetuate such a erroneous statement? How much tinsel should I use?"

"All of it. The story is to keep kids from going to look for Santa's workshop—no, not one strand at a time! Try tossing it on by the handful... like this." Napoleon demonstrated.

Illya looked at him through the silver strands cascading over his head. "Very funny. Would you like to know where I'm going to place _**this**_ ornament?"


	35. Martyrdom of St Illya: Dec 13 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Santa Lucia  
_

**The Martyrdom of St. Illya**  
_(slightly blasphemous txt)_

Illya sat with his elbows on the rickety table, head cradled in his hands. Napoleon's cheerful "Good Morning!" was answered by a sustained groan.

"My eyelids feel like sandpaper."

"Ah. You got a pretty bad whiff of that THRUSH tear gas. How about some breakfast? A reward for a job-- if not well-done-- well-survived." He slid a laden plate under his partner's nose.

"I think this may be the first time I have said these words in my life, but I am **not** hungry." He looked down at the two poached eggs Napoleon had prepared and groaned again. "Ah. A _Santa Lucia_ special. How entirely appropriate."


	36. Operation: Mistletoe: Dec 14 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
Operation: Mistletoe**

Think fighting to keep the world safe from THRUSH is hard to do? Try beating Illya Kuryakin to work! Now _THAT_ is a challenge!

But I managed it. And with the smirking assistance of Section 4, I implemented my cunning plan. Then, armed with coffee and a grin, I laid in wait.

He appeared an hour later; hair ruffled, tie askew, eyes wide with panic—and evidence of his morning adventure painted in lipstick all over his face and throat.

"Who—" he demanded, in icy tones, "—hung all that _bloody_ mistletoe along the corridors!"

I waved meekly and, pasting on my most bulletproof smile, raised the camera.


	37. Yule TimeOut: Dec 15 drabblex2

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Decorations  
_

**Yule Time-Out**

He kicked the door shut and dropped his grip on the chair. This last affair had whisked him and his partner out of New York just before Christmas and had spun them around the world a couple of times. Finally the debriefings were over, the last reports written, and there was nothing more to do than wait for the stitches to come out.

He'd argued against the decorations. He hadn't seen the point in putting them up, since he wasn't going to celebrate the holiday—if he'd been allowed, like normal, uncommitted, non-UNCLE agents did—and if he _**did**_, he'd probably have spent the time at his partner's flat.

Now here he was and Christmas was a month past. He looked at the small tree. A draft stirred the tinsel, surrounded him with the scent of pine and bayberry.

Ignoring the lamp, Illya lit the candles on the dry boughs. He brushed the dust off of the single unopened present beneath, reading the handwritten card with a smile. He held the package to his ear and shook it gently, wondering if he could guess what was inside.

"It seems we didn't miss Christmas after all, Napoleon."


	38. Matter of Interpretation: Dec 16 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Stockings_

**A Matter of Interpretation**

It took both of them to hold the hose steady. But as soon as the fire was dampened, gunfire from the storage facility returned with vigor, forcing both men to take cover.

"What are they stocking in that warehouse? Ammunition?"

"Silk. You know," Napoleon smiled, "as in 'ladies' undergarments'. I hope they don't damage the merchandise too much."

"Only you would give a darn about a supply of impractical female accessories," Illya scoffed. "Is it going to take a sock in the jaw to get you to focus on the problem at hand?"

"They don't go over their _hands_, Illya," Napoleon said dreamily, drawing his Special to return fire.


	39. In His Element: Dec 17 drabblex3

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Snowman_

**In His Element**

He knew that Napoleon thought he was insane, but Illya liked to walk through the streets of New York in the heart of winter. He loved the smell of the air, scrubbed clean with crystals of ice carried on a brisk draft of arctic wind. It almost tasted like home.

It was a good snow. The adults had retreated and the children were taking over the city. He walked down to the park and watched them pushing and towing one another around on sleds, or throwing snowballs in powdery harmless puffs, their peals of laughter hanging forever in the frigid air.

He paused to watch three children trying to get a huge ball of snow stacked onto another, larger one that they had rolled together. They had made it too big and could not lift it.

Tugging his gloves over the cuffs of his sleeves, he added his effort to the project.

It was not like Illya to waste food, but the carrot he had left over from lunch looked perfect as a nose. He would have donated some buttons, too, for the eyes—but he couldn't remember if they were the exploding kind or not.

He stepped back and let the children finish dressing their snowman. He had stepped into their world briefly, but now it was time to go. He shrugged the flakes off of his coat and turned away.

A snowball struck his shoulder, exploding lightly against the dark fabric. He turned suddenly and the children scattered, giggling.

Illya smiled. Maybe just a little while longer... he gathered a handful of snow.


	40. Blue Plate: Dec 18 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Reindeer  
_

**Blue Plate**

Illya pushed the plate away, untouched. "No, thank you."

Napoleon looked up in surprise. "Not hungry? Did the world come to an end and I didn't get the memo?" Taking up his fork, he selected a choice morsel of the roasted meat. "Didn't think I'd live to see the day you turned down a meal. Smells delicious!"

"I'm sure it is," Illya said. He watched Napoleon take a bite. "But I don't care much for reindeer."

"Wah?" The word became a gasp as he choked lightly. "I'm eating a—you're kidding, right?"

"Christmas Special." Illya smirked. "Welcome to Lapland."


	41. Both Ends Burning: Dec 19 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Candle_

**Both Ends Burning**

The flame was a tongue of mellow gold—yellow and white with a heart of blue. It danced over the tip of the wick, nibbling daintily at the sweating wax column.

The rope burned slowly, the untwisting veins of hemp smouldering and curling. It soaked up the heat and seared the raw skin on his wrists, but he ignored the pain.

_Survive. Escape. Rescue Napoleon. Heal later._

Smoke filled the small room as the fire sawed at his bonds. He held his breath, hoping that neither the flame nor he would die before the oxygen ran out.


	42. O Tannenbaum: Dec 20 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Christmas Tree  
_

**O Tannenbaum**

Napoleon regarded the sour-faced Thrushman sitting in the chair, struggling vainly to free himself.

"How... festive," Napoleon remarked, with a smirk.

"It was all I could find—sorry about the Christmas tree." Illya dabbed at a cut on his lip as he explained.

"No matter... it is the season for giving, after all." Napoleon tipped his partners' face upward with a fingertip under his chin. "Looks like he 'gave' you a shiner."

"Well, he's the one shining now."

"You could have at least unplugged the cords before you tied him up with them."

"The lights are pretty!"


	43. August Affair in Technicolor: Dec 21

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Red, Gold, or Green_

**The August Affair (in Technicolor)  
**

The room was vast, and Illya would have said it had been well-lit—before the vault opened. The warm illumination was transformed into shadows by the pure brilliance that erupted forth.

They all would have been struck blind if not for the thick goggles screening their faces. Even so, Illya raised his hand to shield his eyes. The light lanced through his fingers in shafts of gold and green. He was enveloped, infused and penetrated by it. He felt thin and translucent like a pane of stained glass.

That's when he heard the odd noise, growing quickly into unearthly music. He pressed the goggles more firmly to his face and closed his eyes. The world turned red.


	44. Secret Agent Santa: Dec 22 drabblex2

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Presents_

**Secret Agent Santa**

A rustle of paper. "What have we here… cuff links?"

"In lieu of my teeth."

"Oh. You heard about that." Illya's grin was unapologetic.

"Yeah. Thanks for not collecting. Besides, **_these_** are more useful. Section 8 special."

"Thank you! My present for you has not yet arrived."

"Well, that is kind of you, _tovarish_--can I pick it up later?" Napoleon peeled back a cuff to check his watch, "I'm meeting Carol tonight for some... um, caroling." A door swished open and Carol herself appeared, wrapped in sparkles and cashmere.

Illya waved them off. "Go ahead. Have fun."

"Yes," Napoleon's attention was already gone. Illya smiled after them as the door closed.

A secretary walked up. "Mr. Kuryakin. I have the papers for Mr. Solo's emergency courier mission--"

"I'll take them. There's been a change of plans and it is I who will handle this affair. Napoleon... has his hands full."


	45. Observances: Dec 23 drabblex2

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Tradition_

**Observances**

"It is all very nice," Illya said, gesturing to the numerous wrapped packages, "but I'm not sure what to do with them. Gift giving is not so compulsory in Russia. Am I expected to give each of these people a gift in return?"

"Not unless you want to. Giving small, inexpensive gifts are an American tradition—it's fun! You can always re-wrap them and give them out as gifts next year—just be sure _not_ to give them back to the person who gave it to you!"

Illya shook his head. "As baffling as your inexplicable idioms. It is not a logical system."

Napoleon clucked at him. "Don't Russians have any traditions that exist for no logical reason?"

"Yes, we do." Illya reached under his desk and brought up a bottle or vodka. A dark blue ribbon was tied around the neck.

"Excellent! Distilled Christmas cheer! I have glasses..."

Illya poured. "In Russia, it is tradition is that when you have alcohol, it must be drunk until it is gone."

Napoleon eyed his glass warily, but raised it to toast his friend. "Ah! the gift that keeps giving... hangovers. Merry Christmas, Illya."

"_Na zdarOv'ya_, Napoleon."


	46. Vigil: Dec 24 drabblex2

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Santa_

**Vigil**

Noises drew him from his watchful circuit of the house. The thick carpets swallowed his footsteps as he darted through the darkness, gun in hand and nerves singing. It was nearly midnight on Christmas Eve.

Someone was moving about in the family room. Everyone was upstairs sleeping, or trying to sleep; since THRUSH had targeted the scientists' families, UNCLE had placed agents in each home to insure that there would be no incident. Evil secret societies thirsting to rule the world would not give up easily, nor would it observe truce, even during this sacred time—not when the stakes were so high.

There was definitely someone in the room; light shone through a door ajar. It fell across his face in a golden stripe as he peered inside.

A small smile gentled his mouth. Tucking his gun back into his shoulder holster, he pushed the door open. In the armchair by the fire a small pajama-clad figure lay wrapped in a blanket, fighting sleep.

"Wanna see Santa," she murmured in his ear as he carried her upstairs. "I brought his favourite cookies."

"I'll see he gets them," he promised softly, tucking the blanket under her chin. "Provided he knows the correct passwords."


	47. Line of Duty: Dec 25 drabblex4

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Dinner  
_

**Line of Duty**

Here I am—December 25th, at work instead of at home with the kids, with a Section Two on my table instead of a roast turkey with the works—the story of my life as a doctor working for the U.N.C.L.E.

It's impossible to administer a painkiller—not until after he gets debriefed from his mission. I try to be gentle, but I know it must hurt like hell. He doesn't show it, of course... doesn't move a muscle during the entire operation. I can hear his teeth creaking, see the muscles jumping in his jaw. Only when I finally set aside the suture kit does he react—to swing his legs over the side of the table and reach for his shirt.

I know better than to try to stop him. I hate to see the lengths that these brave men push themselves to for their work. I turn my back to let him dress in privacy and start cleaning up.

"Doctor."

I jump a foot in the air at the sound of his voice. "Mr. Kuryakin?"

"The bullet, please."

I drop the lump of metal in his palm. "I hope you got something else for Christmas, too," Lame joke, I know. "Come back later and I'll give you something for the... discomfort."

"I would rather you got back to your family. I'm sorry to have disrupted your holiday."

"Dinner will wait. In fact, I'm sure that there will be an extra setting at the table. We'd be honored if you joined us."

"You are very kind, doctor. I couldn't possibly impose. Although I would very much like to," he amends, his demeanor very genuine. "I'm afraid this debriefing will be lengthy. Please do not wait."

I give him 'The Look'. "I'll be here when you get done. Come back down so I can re-bandage that. That's an order."

"Yes, sir." He gives me this ironic little bow and leaves.

I pick up the phone. If I knew my wife, she'll have a plate already packed for me and ready to be brought here. I'll just make sure she sends enough for two...


	48. Carrying One Another: Dec 26 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Holiday  
_

**Carrying One Another**

Hard to find a comfortable position sitting, but writing a report is hard to do standing up. Waverly would probably not mind if I finished it later, but I wanted to get it done so I could go home and—

"Here you are."

"And there you are," I deflected. "Just on time to watch me to finish a report. As usual."

"I might have helped you with it—if I had known about the mission in the first place."

I sighed, sat back. Mistake; pain flared up my back. I countered my involuntary twitch by standing up quickly and taking my jacket off the coat hook. "I thought you could use a holiday," I said lightly.

"Thanks." His smile was knowing. "And I thought you could use a ride home."


	49. William NoTell: Dec 27 drabblex2

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: Skiing  
_

**William No-Tell**

"What—go out there?" Napoleon looked out through the window through fingers of frost. Snow had fallen during the night, leaving a gleaming powder across the alpine landscape.

"We came up here to this resort to ski, remember?" Illya leaned his skis against the mantle. "That is infinitely easier to do if we actually go outside where the snow is."

"But... it's so, um... warm in here." Napoleon's eyes focus beyond his partner's face as a group of women walked past. "I think I'll just sit here by the fireplace and enjoy the, um... famous Swiss cocoa."

Illya sighed. "Fine. I'm going." He tugged on his gloves. "Don't get burned."

"Hmm." Napoleon was watching a tall, beautiful blond woman who was walking toward them, purpose in her stride. He straightened his tie, grinning.

She walked right up to them and tapped Illya on the shoulder. "Are you ready for your lesson, Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Certainly, Miss Hochstedler. I will meet you outside."

"Illya--?" Napoleon was confused.

"Miss Hochstedler is my ski instructor."

"But—I thought you said you were an expert skier! I've seen you—"

Illya grinned at him. "Enjoy your cocoa, Napoleon."


	50. Avalanche: Dec 28 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: mulled wine_

**Avalanche**

It happened in an instant—no warning. Even if he had heard the rumble that had rolled down before the icy wave struck, like thunder out of a clear-blue sky, he could not have reacted quickly enough.

He had been gliding down the shimmering slope in vigorous pursuit of his willowy blonde ski instructor. She had twisted back to laugh at him, her skis slicing through the powder, taunting voice egging him on with promises of massages and mulled wine…

The next moment he was enveloped. The river of ice crested and pulled him down under its deadly current. All he knew then was rolling, wrenching, smothering cold.


	51. Coffin of Ice: Dec 29 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: winter coat_

**Coffin of Ice**

He became aware of something trickling down his neck. He couldn't move; his limbs were packed with ice and his head with fuzz. The world was white, his body over-hot—although the heat did not relieve the gnawing cold. He couldn't drag any breath into his body—if there was any air to breathe. He focused all his strength on his arms, reaching blindly.

A hand closed on his; his body again pulled and wrenched and pressed—and suddenly the cold delicious air touched his face and he drew it in deeply, coughing against the snow that came in with it. More hands lifted him, buffeted him, stripped away the darkness like an unwanted winter coat.

Napoleon patted his partner's reddened cheeks, brushing the crystals from his hair, calling his name in commanding tones. When Illya opened his eyes warily, Napoleon shouted with joy.


	52. Bouquets of Chrysanthemums:Dec 30

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: fireworks_

**Bouquets of Chrysanthemums **

Another day, another satrapy to destroy. Everything was going splendidly—until the explosives that they had planted detonated. That was when All Hell and everything in the neighboring zip codes went up like Armageddon.

"I think we used too much dynamite," Illya said mildly, ducking instinctively as a massive burst went off overhead, showering them with gold, green, and blue sparkles.

"Well, I guess we know now why Mr. Waverly wanted us to do this tonight… nothing better than noise and lights for New Years' celebrations."

"That'll teach THRUSH to hide their laboratory in a fireworks factory."

"You're enjoying this way too much, Illya."


	53. Old New Year: Dec 31 drabble

**Climate of Negatives  
**_mfuwss drabble challenge: New Year  
_

**Old New Year**

Napoleon raised his glass in a toast. "To the New Year!"

"To the _New_ New Year!" Illya responded, tapping the crystal lip of his fluted glass lightly against Napoleon's. "_Na zdarOv'ya!_"

Napoleon paused before tasting the champagne. "What do you mean—new-new?"

"Today is the New Year according to the Gregorian calendar. January 14th is the _Old_ New Year by the Julian calendar."

"So, do you usually celebrate the new one or the old one?"

"I celebrate both, and every day, between and after."

The crystal sang again as the glasses kissed.


	54. Tic Tac Toe Tag

**Climate of Negatives  
****Tic Tac Toe Tag**

The wheels on the gurney squeaked as it was pushed through the doorway, banging sharply on the scuffed metal plates. A draft of cold air ruffled the orderly's dark hair.

"Hey!" the orderly looked up in surprise at the exclamation "Careful there, young man! That is a person on that table… not a bumper-car in a county fair!"

The orderly ducked his head apologetically; his hair fell over one of his eyes. He clumsily maneuvered the gurney across the room and placed it against the wall, beside another table with its own patient, silent occupant.

The coroner was poised over a well-lit table, curved needle gleaming in his fingers trailing a line of silk. "Are you new here?" he squinted up suspiciously at the orderly. "I don't remember you…" Eyes distorted through bifocals flicked toward the nametag on the orderly's jacket. "… Leon?"

"On loan from County, sir," the younger man mumbled. "Heard you were short-handed."

"Well, there's no denying I can use the help," the needle swooped down and up again, and with a complicated dance the final knot was made. "I was just about to start on our next guest. Your fellow will have to wait a bit, I'm afraid." He paused by the gurney and regarded the shrouded figure soberly.

The sheet covered the body entirely except for the feet; naked and white, a yellow tag tied around the big toe. The doctor flipped it around and read the writing there. He clicked his tongue. "Tch. Horrible penmanship. Must have been written by a doctor, eh?" He chuckled at his own joke.

"Look, if you want to make yourself helpful, put this fellow in number seven while I take a little break. I think I'm gonna need to put a pot of coffee on… it's going to be a long night." He didn't notice that the orderly was holding his breath. "We seem to be rather too popular tonight."

"Yes, doctor—" As soon as the door swung shut, he leaned over the body on the gurney and spoke.

"Time to stop laying down on the job, Kuryakin." He grabbed the sheet and tugged it off. "No rest for the wicked."

"'Can death be sleep, when life is but a dream?'" A man with blond hair lay on the table, fully clothed in a dark suit except for shoes and socks. He sat up with a smooth motion and untied the tag from around his toe.

Napoleon lifted the sheet covering the face of body on the other gurney. "This isn't Padgett. Look in the lockers. We need to find him before the coroner gets back."

"And pray that the efficient doctor hasn't already done the honours," his partner added darkly.

A quick search turned up the body of Padgett; late agent of the U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon checked briefly under the sheet. "He is intact," he said with relief. "We'll get him back to HQ and Dr. Stevens will be able to administer the drug that will revive him. But his effects are missing. We'll have to retrieve them, too, Illya."

"I'll take care of that tonight. Let's get him out of the cooler and onto the gurney." They worked together to swiftly move the body of their brother agent. Illya placed the forged documents on a clipboard and lay it on top of the sheet. "This will get you out past security. Don't forget to complain loudly to the guard about having to work alone."

"Don't I always?" Napoleon smirked when Illya curled his lip at him. He took the tag off of Padgett and handed it to Illya. "Try not to catch cold in there."

Illya was stripping off his clothes. Across his chest a great puckered Y-shaped scar had been manufactured, complete with sutures. He handed his clothes to Napoleon, and then opened one of the cooler lockers, pulling the slab out and settling himself on the chilly surface. He attached the tag to his toe and then stretched himself out in the long tray.

Napoleon suppressed a wince at the sight. He threw a sheet over his partner's pale body. "Are you sure you're not going to freeze in there?"

"I'm sure. The serum that UNCLE has developed will protect me from hypothermia for several hours. And there's no danger that they'll try to autopsy me again." He brushed the prosthetic scars with his fingertips and grinned.

"You look dreadful. Good luck." Napoleon pushed the tray into the locker and began to close the door, but a hand shot out and stopped him. "What?"

"Next time, you get to play the corpse."

"But you're more suited for the role than I am."

"And why is that?"

"Your Siberian temperament." Napoleons shushed him as Illya growled a retort. "Doc's coming back! Play dead!" He closed the door.

Inside the locker was dark as blindness. Illya lay back on the cold metal slab and marveled at the feeling that didn't chill his skin. "I should get some of this serum for the next time I go home on holiday," he softly muttered to himself. His skin under the fake scar itched, but he ignored the sensation. The doctor had returned, and the grim work in the morgue continued.

Time to bide, and dream of sleep among the dead.


	55. Division of Labour

**Climate of Negatives  
Division of Labour  
**

Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the scene unfolded around me. I saw everything with the startling clarity that staring death in the face brings.

The room was filling with smoke from the ruin of the big machine. Illya had managed to switch out the programming card for the special one that UNCLE had provided—made of finest quality plastic explosives—and it had done its job well. There was a great hole in the ceiling and the entire floor above was crumbling and falling at inconvenient intervals.

We got separated during the blast, but we were supposed to be making our way out of the building. While he chased down the THRUSH baddie, my job was to bring out Dr. Lager—if he hadn't been killed already.

I had found the room where he was being held, but he hadn't been alone. I found Illya's guy and my guy--the former about to execute the latter.

Now I watched as the barrel came up in pain-staking slow motion. The revolver chamber was rolling over, the hammer throwing sparks into the thickening air, the solid slug of lead spitting from the gun—

Something moved between us—some dark shape with a halo of gold—and then time surged forward and the next thing my amazed brain registered was that I somehow had the gun and the man who had been wielding it was clutching a broken jaw.

Illya was on the floor, hugging his chest and rocking. I knelt, cupping my hand to the back of his neck. "Illya?" He was struggling to draw a breath, batting at my hands when I tried to move his arms. "Stop fighting me, you stubborn Russian! Let me see where you've been hit."

"It's—nothing!" he managed to say with a strangled gasp. "L-Lager! Get—" he wheezed "h-him out!"

"There's an idea," I said dryly. "And I'll just leave you here to bleed to death. Or burn," I added, noticing the blackness of the smoke roiling along the rafters. I shouted at Lager, who was cowering beneath the window, "Time to go, Doc! Grab an end."

He took Illya's feet and together we toted him out of the building. He wouldn't have been much of a burden even for just one of us, but he kept squirming in our arms. I didn't mind; dead men don't wiggle.

"Put me down please!"

They don't whine, either. I couldn't help but smile, it spread across my face as we set him down on the grass some distance from the burning building. He sat up right away, tearing at the shreds of his shirtfront.

"Damn… it's ruined!"

"There, there, Illya," I patted his arm. "We can always buy you another shirt."

"Not the shirt, Napoleon. This." He held out the computer card he'd stolen when he'd planted the explosive in its place. It was dented; the bullet that could have killed either of us had torn through the delicate matrix of wires and plastic and embedded itself. There was a smear of scarlet on his fingers, and I could see where the sharp edges had abraded his skin. "Mr. Waverly will _not_ be pleased."

"He will be when we bring him the man who can build him another one." I placed my hand over his heart, relieved to feel the hammering beneath my fingers and the clean handkerchief, and helped him stand. "Thanks, by the way. I owe _you_ another one."

He snorted softly. "We've never kept score before. Why start now? Besides," his dry chuckle had only a small hitch "it's what we do. You save the day... and I save you."

"Except when it's the other way around."

He let me steady him as we walked, and he didn't fight with me as I handed him to the UNCLE medical team. Mr. Waverly arrived right after the ambulance, and I turned to give him a report. When I turned back, Lager was in the hands of the medics, and Illya was nowhere to be seen.

That slippery Russian! I knew where I'd find him, so I didn't worry. He'd be at the office, typing up our official report and ready to hit the town as soon as I got there. Staring in the face of death, it gives you a certain clarity; I could see it all, and it made me smile more.

But my hands shook a little as I folded the bloodstained handkerchief and slipped it in my pocket.

This one had been too close.


	56. The First Meeting Affair easter egg

_Note from Loth: Gabi asked for a Gen story about a lonely Illya new to UNCLE and a brash but kind Napoleon befriending him. I don't think I've earned the extra point, but I hope you like it anyway! :D_

**Climate of Negatives**  
**The First Meeting Affair**

Passing the UNCLE water cooler, Napoleon overheard the following:

"... Seen the new guy? Can you believe he brought in Jazzy Joey Valencia single-handed?"

"He had to do it single-handed – Joey shot him in the arm."

"But he still brought him in! The Old Man's been trying to take down that part of the Family for over a year. Kuryakin's not even in New York for a full day, and already he's bagged Joey!"

"He was just lucky... he practically fell over him at the airport – "

"Hey, with Uncle Alex, results are more important than methods. Wait till Solo finds out – shh!" Both men flushed as they noticed that they were being overheard and suddenly remembered they had urgent appointments elsewhere in the building.

Napoleon wasn't surprised to find Mr. Waverly seated at the big desk when he arrived. The head of Section One was shuffling through a pile of folders with a frown on his face, looking for his pipe.

"I hear congratulations are in order, sir. We've been trying to catch Joey Valencia for quite a while – "

"How kind." Napoleon turned at the voice that came from across the room. A thin man was standing by the windows, sunlight gleaming off his cap of blond hair. "I assure you, it was nothing."

"Mr. Solo, meet Mr. – ah, Kuryakin."

Napoleon came forward with a handshake, but Kuryakin placed a hand over his right arm, which he was holding closely against his body. He gave Solo a curt bow in greeting. "A pleasure."

"Russian?" Napoleon thought he recognized the accent.

"Occasionally."

"Mr. Kuryakin come to us most recently from U.N.C.L.E. Berlin."

"Ah. You know Harry Beldon, then."

Kuryakin merely nodded his assent, refraining from comment.

"Well, I'm impressed, Mr. Kuryakin. Joey Valencia is no pushover. How did you manage to catch him?"

"His photograph was in the files Mr. Waverly sent me to review during my trans-Atlantic flight. I recognized him when I bumped him off at the airport."

"You mean 'bumped into him'," Napoleon said helpfully. "Unless he's, um..."

"Still alive and mostly unharmed," Waverly clarified. "With the testimony that he's going to give – eventually – we'll be able to shut down half of the Family's activities on the East Coast."

"Well done, ah, Mr. Kuryakin – "

"Illya, please."

"Illya." Napoleon smiled. "I, um, heard that Joey didn't go down without a fight." He nodded at the arm. "How bad is it?"

Illya rolled his shoulders in a shrug. "It is of no significance."

"Good. I was hoping to have you join me on the counterfeit Fabergé affair we've got coming up." Napoleon turned toward Waverly, who was now searching for his humidor. "With your permission, sir."

"You are Chief Enforcement Agent. I trust you'll make best use of Mr. Kuryakin, just as you do the other Section Two agents.

"But that affair can wait one more day, Mr. Solo." Having found tobacco and pipe, Waverly was now looking around for a match. "I want you to take Mr. Kuryakin around. Give him the fifty-cent tour. And then go out to relax on the town a little. Show him a good time." He glanced up at Napoleon. "Not too good of a time, mind you. I expect you both here first thing tomorrow morning."

"Sir," Napoleon admonished his superior with a grin. "I assure you, the words 'too good' aren't in my vocabulary." Waverly grunted and Kuryakin tucked his chin to stifle a grin.

Napoleon gestured for Illya to accompany him out of the office. The young agent flashed a small, shy smile and fell into step beside him.

Alexander Waverly smiled as the door closed on the two agents. "Yes. I think those two will work out just fine." He reached out and flipped a switch on his control board and barked gruffly, "Miss Rogers... matches, please!"


	57. Alternate Beginnings

_Another take on Napoleon/Illya first meetings, gadgets and a touch of banter :)_

**Climate of Negatives  
Alternate Beginnings **

Napoleon leaned down, ostentatiously to allow the pretty receptionist to pin his badge in place. She returned his smile demurely.

"I've been waiting for you all my life, Miss Rogers," Napoleon tried to capture her fingers, but she eluded his grasp.

"Mr. Solo, Mr. Waverly is waiting for _**you**_. And the file on the Sarsaparilla Affair."

"I was just going to fetch it from my office..." With a regretful sigh, Napoleon walked backward toward the door. It opened automatically behind him and then swallowed him as he blew her a kiss.

The halls of UNCLE were the same as ever, young agents walking briskly about their business, slender secretaries swaying through the silently opening doors; Napoleon walked confidently, moving along with the smooth, industrious activity until he reached his office. The door failed to open for him, and as he was watching Miss Chan over his shoulder, he walked right into the panel with a thump.

"Hey!"

The doors sprang open belatedly, and Napoleon frowned into the room.

There was a man in his office. A few inches shorter than himself, and dressed in a nondescript black suit with a short cap of fair hair. He was pointing a strange-looking gizmo at the door which was emitting a low humming noise.

He peered at Napoleon through tinted glasses and his round face broke into a shy smile. "Mr. Solo, I presume? Sorry about the door... I was experimenting with a little something that Section 8 has been working on. Magnetically seals doors with the touch of a button. They asked me to try it out." His accent contained elements of both Russia and England.

"Well," Napoleon smiled and gingerly patted his nose, "you can tell them that it works." He looked the man over from shoes to wheaten locks. "You are the new agent I've heard about. Kuryakin."

"Illya Kuryakin, Mr. Solo." He accepted the offered handshake and executed a short bow over their joined hands. "At your service." He frowned slightly, leaning in close to Napoleon's face. "Was it **that** way _before _you ran into the door?"

"What?" Napoleon pulled himself back slightly, hand going to his nose self-conscious. "Was it **what** way—?"

"Nothing. It looks... fine. Better than your photos." Illya flicked the button on his gizmo again, and the door slid open. "Mr. Waverly is expecting us..."

"Coming." Napoleon circled his desk to collect the Sarsaparilla file, bending down to check his reflection on the polished brass lamp. "Better?" He muttered, then he smiled after Kuryakin, tossing his head. "Very funny, comrade."


	58. Engineered Amnesia

**Climate of Negatives  
Engineered Amnesia  
**

Napoleon walked with purpose through the corridors. His jaw was set and there was urgency in his stride, hurrying without running.

There was a door at the end of the corridor with two lights positioned over the lintel. The red one was lit. The door opened as Napoleon approached.

Through a glass wall, Napoleon could see his partner, Illya Kuryakin, lying on a couch. His eyes and ears were covered with a metal hood, out of which ran dozens of electrodes. His arms and legs were restrained by straps, and every few seconds a tremulous shiver ran the length his body.

A woman was sitting at the console outside of the glass, monitoring the readouts from the computer. She looked up as Napoleon walked in, her features reading pleasure but rapidly changing to an expression of alarm. "Mr. Solo! You can't go in—"

"I need to speak to Mr. Kuryakin. It is important."

"Unfortunately, Mr. Kuryakin isn't Mr. Kuryakin anymore. In a few more minutes he will be Dr. Johannes Osthofen. The programming is nearly complete—he won't know you or any other UNCLE personnel, until he is given the trigger to erase the memory blocks we've implanted."

"Can't we reset the programming? I really need some information that only Illya can give me."

"That would undo hours of work! And the programming won't be as effective a second time… the body and mind begin to form immunity. If he loses his programming too soon, it could upset the entire mission and endanger innocent lives. I can't let you risk that without Mr. Waverly's permission, sir."

Napoleon stood and watched Illya for a moment, weighing in his mind the ramifications. "How long will the programming last? Are we talking days or weeks?"

"That is unknown, Mr. Solo. This is our newest and deepest method of memory suppression and modification. It hasn't been tested in the field yet. Mr. Kuryakin volunteered for this, and without Mr Waverly's direct instructions I cannot divulge the details of the mission. As Chief of Section Two, you may have access, but you'll still have to get it through Mr. W—"

"Okay, okay, Miss Clark… I get it." Napoleon sighed and scrubbed his face, pushing his errant forelock back and running his fingers through his dark hair. "I guess if I want what I need, I'd better make sure Illya's affair gets completed quickly."


	59. Man's Best Fiend

**Climate of Negatives  
****Man's Best Fiend**

"I won't say it."

"Thank you. You're entitled to. You've never made a secret of how much you disapproved of us."

"And you've never made secret of how little my approval matters. I would have thought it odd if you did. Be careful of the curb." Illya watched as his partner struggled with his crutches on the short flight leading down to Del Floria's. "However, if you _had_ asked, I would have advised against it. You've never had much luck with them."

Napoleon turned around to give his smirking friend a glare. "Fine. Next time I decide to get a cat, I'll be sure to get your opinion first."

"Or, perhaps, an apartment without stairs."


	60. The Sticks and Stones Affair

**Climate of Negatives****  
The Sticks and Stones Affair**

As the man stumbled forward, Illya could tell that something was wrong. The blond agent was small and quick, thus used to being able to out-run larger and stronger opponents, but it was like this fellow was walking in slow motion; Illya could run circles around him. "Come on! You big ugly brute! Come after me!"

The man didn't try to catch Illya, or follow him. He staggered on toward Napoleon, who was still immobilized by the masonry block pinning his leg.

Napoleon shoved against the block, ineffectually. "Um, Illya..." he said, uneasily, "... this guy doesn't look like he's planning to be helpful." The man's hands were reaching out toward the fallen agent, fingers grasping, as if he were trying to crush Napoleon's throat before he could actually touch him.

Napoleon renewed his efforts to escape, scraping his already-raw skin anew. But the stone across his ankle wouldn't budge, and all he managed to do was darken it with fresh blood.

The shuffling man moaned, a sound that chilled Napoleon and his partner. He slowed, swaying as if in the throes of pleasure, then began to move again, slowly forward, grasping.

Illya ran back to his friend, throwing all of his weight against the stone. He grabbed a length of wood and used it as a lever. The stone shifted slightly, then settled back more firmly against Napoleon's leg. He barked with pain. Illya redoubled his efforts, putting a foot on the lever. The wood groaned and the masonry block shifted again.

"Illya!" Napoleon drew his gun and fired, just as the stone rolled away from him. Illya felt the sting of gunpowder burning his skin as the bullets tore past him, so close.

The man came on at them, ignoring the bloodless holes that appeared across his chest. One cold grasping hand brushed Illya aside like an insect, sent him spinning into the broken stones of the collapsed archway. Napoleon got to his feet, limping backward to avoid those hands.

"Can we talk about this?" Napoleon said, sidestepping to place another pillar of stone between himself and his attacker. "I mean, if I had known she was your sister, I'd have never asked her out on a date!"

The man moaned again, striking the pillar with both arms. The stones scattered, and the roof overhead sagged ever more dangerously. More stones rained down on the men.

Illya swung his length of wood and the big man stopped, his head jerking forward. Encouraged, Illya swung again, but the wood glanced off the thick skull with no noticeable effect.

"Choke up on the bat, man!" Napoleon shouted, encouragingly. "Think Yankees... not Red Sox!"

Illya shifted his grip and swung. The man's head snapped back, hard. He emitted a long, growling sound and turned toward the slighter man. Illya swung again, but this time the man caught the club in his hand. The fingers closed and the wood splintered.

But Napoleon had used the time well. He was yards away, limping with as much speed as possible. Illya ducked under the man's swinging grasp and hurried after his partner. He drew Napoleon's arm over his shoulder and together they ran, leaving their lumbering enemy behind.

"Well, at least we learned something useful," Napoleon quipped thinly between teeth gritted with pain as they hurried toward the place where they'd hidden the car.

"Useful? What have we learned?" Illya demanded, sourly. "That a THRUSH bully can kick our butts, even if he's been killed? Twice! That bullets are useless against zombies, or whatever that... that _man_... was? Or perhaps that UNCLE agents go boom when they fall down?"

"We learned you've completely missed your calling at professional baseball."

Illya's sharp retort was drowned in the noise of the building behind them collapsing.

"Great," muttered Illya. "Mr. Waverly isn't going to like this. I think you should write the report, Napoleon."

Napoleon chuckled brokenly, "You're just angry that you missed your date with Magda."

"I have other things to think about than a silly woman." They reached the car. Illya tore away the branches he'd used to conceal it, and helped Napoleon swing his bleeding leg in before closing the gullwing door.

"A silly woman with a seriously beautiful face," Napoleon amended as Illya climbed in and started the engine. "You should be more appreciative of the fair sex, Illya."

The headlights swiveled up, and revealed the road ahead. A dozen figures shuffled and stumbled in the glare of the beams, hands reaching out, fingers grasping.

"I'll leave that to you," Illya muttered, gunning the engine.

"My pleasure," Napoleon responded, grinning. He braced himself as the car leaped forward.


End file.
